Chapter 3:

{five years and nine months ago}

Martha grounded herself in the rhythmic sound of cutting carrots. Chop chop chop-chop. Chop chop chop-chop. Chop chop chop-chop. Chop chop chop

A pair of arms hesitantly wrapped around her waist. Martha ruthlessly stifled her scream, suppressed the way her skin wanted to twitch with revulsion when he nuzzled the back of her neck. God, when the Doctor apologetically explained the backstory the Tardis gave the newly dubbed Sam Tyler, Martha hadn't realized how affectionate her new "fiancé" would be. Sam Tyler, at the end stages of healing from a mugging, completely adored his future wife and the life they were building together in their spacious London flat.

The Tardis, meticulous to a fault, easily accounted for both his lapse in memory and his gunshot wound: a mugging gone wrong. As far as Sam knew, he'd been walking home from a pub when some punk tried to steal his wallet and phone. He resisted and was stabbed for his troubles, losing about forty-eight hours of memory to boot. He'd woken up in a private room in the hospital to find Martha at his side.

Three months ago, that was, and she still found it so hard to pretend - that she was his fiancée, that they were in love, that nothing was wrong, that the Year had never happened. God, how she envied the Master sometimes!

"Will you tell me what I did wrong, love?" Sam asked, his voice a low, soothing murmur behind her left ear. Martha was sure that, despite the Doctor's many thorough checks that said otherwise, remnants of the archangel network programming lingered in her subconscious. It was the only explanation for the way her body always relaxed into his when he used that tone of voice.

She tried for nonchalant confusion. "Sammy, what are you talking about?"

He immediately scoffed, sounding so much like the Master that she was at once glad he couldn't see her face or the way her hand tightened around the knife grip.

"C'mon, Martha. I may not be the doctor in our relationship, but I'm clever enough to see that you can hardly stand to look at me. I want to know why."

A thick silence stretched as Martha tried and failed to think of anything convincing to say. A part of her, growing larger every passing day, wanted to let the whole thing fall to pieces around her. 'Oh you want to know why, Sam Tyler?' The voice of her suppressed rage sneered, 'It's because you're a mask, and behind that mask is a wretched little megalomaniac that I can't seem to get away from.'

But the Doctor's words would rise up to ring in her ears, as if the Time Lord knew she needed reminding:

"Please, Martha. Please. It's just for a little while, until I can find a cure for his madness. You're the only one I can trust to take care of him. Please."

It wasn't fair, her wounded psyche wailed, of the Doctor to ask this of her. Hadn't she done enough for him already? But the look in those soulful brown eyes as he begged her to care for the only other of his kind haunted her. As did the image of the Master's frightened eyes in the seconds before the chameleon arch activated. She was arrested by the fact that those eyes had searched her out instead of the Doctor. And she wished that the Master was all she saw when she looked into Sam's eyes.

"Did…did I hurt you?" His voice wobbled dangerously, his arms subtly tightening around her waist, as if all he had to do was hold her closer to him to make it untrue. God, the way he could break her heart!

She took a deep breath and didn't have to fake the emotion that thickened her voice as she answered, "Yes, you did."

He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder. "Oh god, no wonder your parents hate me" he said hoarsely, and Martha held on to the twinge of sympathy she felt for dear life, "I'm sorry, Martha. I'm so sorry, love. Why are you still with me? I don't understand. Why are you still here?"

With only a little struggle, Martha turned the hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat into a sigh. 'Why do I stay?' she thought wryly, wishing she could be honest with this fake man who loved her so, 'Because I made a promise. Because he swore to me it wouldn't take long to find a cure. Because you can't be left alone, and I don't trust anyone else to take care of you. Because the Doctor asked me to.'

As if her thoughts summoned them, Doctor's words once again echoed loudly in her mind. Martha looped her arm around Sam's shoulders to run her fingers in the baby soft hair at the nape of his neck, her heart twisting painfully when he relaxed into her touch.

"Because everyone deserves a second chance, and," she swallowed and willed herself to forget the monster lurking within the man holding her so tightly, "Because I…I love you. That's worth fighting for." She said and made herself believe it the way he believed it.

~~~

Six years was a long time to wait. A long time to keep watch. A long time to continue believing that the Doctor would come back. So when Sam's text of, "He's here. Come home now," came through, Martha's first thought was, 'What's Sam got up to now?" and not, 'It's the Doctor.'

But still, she dutifully poked her head into Colonel Douglas's office to inform her that she was needed at home. Douglas, well acquainted with Sam and his melodramatics, merely smirked and waved her hand in dismissal. Just the other day half the office had listened as he detailed the latest developments in his feud with his "arch nemesis," a mouse that Missy had named Stewart. Smiling, and a little amused herself as she imagined what trouble had found her husband, Martha locked up her office and left for the short drive home.

The UNIT outpost she was currently working at was cleverly hidden in the town health clinic. You went into an employee entrance that was biometrically locked, down several flights of stairs, and then a long hallway that opened up into a series of rooms. There was an elaborate tunnel system, some of which led down to holding cells and exam rooms, some to various drop off points or helipads above ground, and some that wound their way back towards London.

Her work mostly kept her below ground, but she'd insisted on having two or three days each week dedicated to working in the above ground clinic. For all that she hunted aliens and helped save the world, Martha never wanted to forget that her first love was rooted in helping people get well.

Martha turned onto the road leading to the cottage, her mind already at home and thinking of dinner, wondering if Missy's fever was giving Sam trouble, and if he'd eaten anything more substantial than crisps at all.

There was a blue police box outside her house.

Martha was surprised by the fear raced up her spine at the sight of the Tardis. For six years she had kept one ear metaphorically perked, waiting for any hint of the Doctor. Now that the hint had finally arrived, she was, well…not as enthusiastic as she always supposed she would be.

'What is he doing here?' But she already knew. There was only one reason the Doctor would come back, and it took everything she had to keep driving steadily when all she could think about was whether she'd have the chance to say goodbye to her husband or if it was already too late. Had the Doctor found the fob watch and forced Sam to open it? Did he even take the time to explain to Sam why he had to give up his life so the Master could live? And what about Missy? The little girl (so, so, so smart for her age) would wonder why her daddy suddenly changed, why he didn't love them anymore or want to live with them. Would the Doctor help her explain that? Or worse…would the Master see his human (half human…?) daughter and demand she go with them? Would the Doctor agree?

Nausea rolled through her stomach as all these questions swirled in her mind, racing through her thoughts one after the other and so fast she could hardly comprehend anything other than a building sense of hysteria.

She must have stopped believing in the Doctor's return a long time ago. What else could explain her life? When she became pregnant with Missy, it was so easy to rationalize the decision to carry to term - what else would a successful and newlywed woman do? And in the meantime it was so easy to sink into the lie until the lie became the truth.

Because six years was such a long time to wait, and it was only now that Martha realized how much of her had stopped believing the Doctor would ever come back. Who could blame her? And sure, she could never truly forget that Sam was the Master under the chameleon arch, but it was impossible to hold on to the idea when she spent every day being loved by him. She knew him as intimately as she knew herself, and if it had been easy to love the Doctor, it was even easier to love Sam, once she let herself do so. Because the truth was that Sam Tyler was lovable. He was smart and funny, mischievous and kind, patient and empathetic to a fault. And he was hers. Completely. Totally.

And she had to give him up so that the Doctor wouldn't be lonely.

Somehow, Martha managed to park safely. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly she could see the whites of her knuckles. A part of her, the part that loved her life, wanted to stay in the car, as if simply refusing to participate would make the Doctor leave. But the coldly rational part, the same part that first (way back during the Family of Blood) insisted that she didn't need the Doctor to be complete, the part that didn't trust anyone else to watch over the chameleon arched Master, reminded her that there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

So, as she always did, Martha shoved her fear and emotions to the side and forced herself up and out of her car.

The scene when she entered the cottage was much calmer than she's been imagining. His relaxed posture (and the way his eyes lit up when she walked in) told Martha that it was still Sam, and he was sitting on the opposite side of the couch from a redheaded woman Martha had never met. Tea and a plate of biscuits sat on the coffee table. Three of the cups were full of still steaming tea while a fourth sat empty, a bag of chamomile patiently waiting inside.

The Doctor was studying the lower shelves of their bookcase, and though six years had come and gone, Martha could still read the tension in the long lines of his body.

Far from chaos, Sam hopped up from his seat and enfolded her in his arms in his usual enthusiastic greeting, lifting her off her feet and forcing a laugh out of her as he spun her around.

"Martha, my sweet doctor! Welcome home," he said, winking at her as he set her back on her feet and leaning in to stage whisper, "we've got guests. If we're quick we can escape out the back before they notice us." Martha laughed and squeezed his biceps reassuringly, the need for it so clear in his eyes. He hugged her again and murmured, "I missed you, love."

If he noticed the fierceness with which she returned his hug, Sam didn't mention it.